


Starlight

by backintimeforstuff



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 07:55:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19224910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backintimeforstuff/pseuds/backintimeforstuff
Summary: Amelia Pond is the girl with all the starlight, and he'll never not stop to look.





	Starlight

The Doctor hopes Amy doesn’t notice when he stares at her, because he does it quite a lot. Whatever she’s doing, whether it be monumentally important or otherwise insignificant, he’ll watch her, out the corner of his eye, or with a smile, or sometimes even with his mouth hanging open as if her presence alone is enough to transfix him. She looks amazing when she saves the world. She looks amazing when she doesn’t. Something about her seems to shine; in her smile, in those hazel eyes, through that red hair of hers which seems to enchant him more than he’d like to admit. Put simply, he supposes, she’s the girl with all the starlight and he’ll never not stop to look. 

Sometimes she’ll come and sit with him in the control room in the early hours of the morning before she’s properly woken up. It’s in those hours that he chances the most glances, because he knows that even if she does catch him, she’ll be too tired to care. She seems to be the most tired in the mornings, regardless of how many hours of sleep she’s had, and it makes him smile because it’s just one of the ways in which Amelia Pond seems to defy the laws of conventional psychics. At these times, another way is through the way she talks. Usually she’ll come in and ramble on about what kind of dream she’s had, or what she wants for breakfast. Sometimes, when she’s dreamiest, she’ll sit and stare around her at the column and the copper walls, and recount sleepily the story of how they met. The Doctor doesn’t care in the slightest that he’s heard it all before – he was there after all – but is instead simply captivated by her Scottishness, the thickness of her accent growing tenfold in the first half an hour of the morning. When she’s recounting fish fingers and custard he shuts his eyes to listen, and it’s just like she’s seven years old again, sitting nonchalantly across the table from him. He finds that the thought of little Amelia Pond always makes him smile, not that he’ll ever tell her that. 

Something else he won’t tell her, is that she’s beautiful. He reckons she already knows that herself, but – it’s something about those casual mornings they have together that catches him right there, and he finds himself staring at the things he wouldn’t normally notice. Before she goes off for a shower that floods a flush onto her cheeks, he’ll gaze at the freckles that scatter there, like stars on a canvas. Before she spends years deciding what colour to paint them, he always makes sure to notice her nails. They’re not exactly hard to miss as she gently wafts her hands around in explanation; something, he muses with a smile, he’s started to involuntary pick up. 

In the mornings she’s bleary eyed, and actually, to The Doctor’s amusement, quite affectionate. Considering he’s usually being battered by alarming amounts of sarcasm and general stubbornness that seem to radiate from her, he adores their friendly “Heya, mister” “Hello, Pond” routine they repeat without fail every time she appears from the top of the stairs to see him standing waiting for her by the console. Before she sits down to her sleepy rambling, she’ll always come over to give him a morning hug, keeping her arms low around his waist to push her head in the direction of his shoulder. He’ll always ask if she’s slept well, and most of the time she’ll reply with a quiet murmur, as if she’s not really concentrating on the question. It’s in these moments he appreciates the fire in her hair, sometimes pinned haphazardly or hanging in tousles, and he puts his arms around her shoulders in response to her warmth, standing them still for the few moments of quiet they have together. 

He lets her have breakfast alone, partly because he wants to avoid an inevitable argument about condiments, and partly because, that way, when he next gets to see her, she’ll be dressed and ready for adventure. Even after so long, her second appearance of the day still makes him stop and stare the most, as inexplicably, she manages to be even more beautiful, and it always takes his breath away. It’s at moments like these when he can forgive the hours she spends coordinating her scarves with her nail polish, as she’ll be wide awake and, usually, quite cheerful. He hopes her high spirits forgive the stare he gives her, swelling from the pit of his stomach as if he can’t quite stop himself. He doesn’t want to try. He’s completely taken with those hazel eyes of hers, wide and caring, brave and unassuming at the same time. Sometimes they’ll stare back at him with a smile that’s ready for anything he could possibly throw at her, and it makes him want to go nowhere at all just so she would keep smiling at him until the last sun goes down. He loves that smile of hers, and the way she throws her head back when she laughs, sending cascades of red hair tumbling like rivers of pure gold. 

He waits – rather impatiently, he finds – for the moments when he gets to take her by the hand and show her the universe. He adores the way he gets to hold her as the control room lurches around them, taking her by the hand or by the waist to keep them both upright in the face of a catastrophic landing. In the midst of all the sparks and explosions, time seems to stop entirely. He’s besotted by that look of pure wonder she wears when absolutely everything is right outside their door, the thrill of it all making her laugh like she’s never laughed before. He can’t believe that she lets him entwine their hands together in these moments, crashing towards the latest escapade – shoulder to shoulder, gazing up at the glass column like it might be the last night of their lives.

When you see it, I see it. 

He’s told her that before, and in a way, it is partly true. The moment they step out of the TARDIS onto a brand-new world, her eyes light up like the stars she’s gazing at, widening with pure majesty. The smile that forms on her lips is one so full of excitement and happiness that he can’t quite believe that a single planet in the sky could evoke such emotion from the most impossibly complex girl he’s ever known. When she smiles at the universe, the Doctor sees everything; every single piece of starlight, every single colour in the sky. Or at least, he would do; if he was looking at it. Of course, if he turned his head to the landscape, to the nights of far flung future and days in distant past, perhaps he could share in her curiosity. But he’s too caught up staring right at her to be captured by any of that. He could see the universe through the eyes of Amelia Pond, but he’s far too besotted with the fact that he can see the universe in the eyes of Amelia Pond; and frankly; he prefers to settle for that. While she smiles at the stars, she doesn’t notice that he’s not drinking in the same view. He’s standing watching her, the feeling the pure majesty of adventure course through every fibre of her being, through his being. To gaze at her in these moments is all he could ever ask. To him, every single sky is bland; but Amelia, Amelia can make them shine. No matter where they are, whatever they chose to see, whenever he’s with her every single sky in the entire universe burns bright gold. The atmosphere reflects off her starry eyes, and sometimes, he has to remind himself to breathe. 

If 700 years of time travel have taught The Doctor anything, it’s that he’s pretty good at saving people. Amelia Pond, he’s found, is positively talented at it. He still can’t quite put his finger on how she always knows exactly what to say, exactly how he may have got it wrong, and how exactly why. Long after he’s run out of words, after the environment they’ve found themselves in is too much to bear, she always knows. He’s beyond dumbstruck at times like these, past gaping at her, because Amelia Pond can stand up in the face of anything. She’ll smile that wonderfully wicked smile of hers, saving tenfold the amount of people he could have ever dreamed of. She’s beyond human in her kindness, beyond even him in her cleverness sometimes; and it makes his hearts stop. The confidence she carries with her radiates through the speeches she makes – owning the room with every breath she takes. God, he can’t keep his eyes off her. Sometimes in the aftermath of escapes, those indebted to her sidle up to him with a smile. You must be proud, they’ll say, as if such simple words could ever do justice to the emotion still coursing through him. When Amelia Pond saves the world, he stares at her in absolute wonder. He’s beyond being proud, he’s amazed. 

It's not unusual for him to lose her on their escapades; but that doesn’t stop his blood from running cold, terror coursing through his veins. Every single time he’s terrified for her, of what the stars might do to her. The Doctor knows all too well that the constellations are a force to be reckoned with, and even with all his wisdom, taming the night sky is something he is yet to master. He doesn’t doubt that she’s causing havoc wherever they’ve taken her, spitting sarcasm at her captors and working out complicated schemes of escape – but the thought of placing all that responsibility onto her makes his hearts ache. In the midst of it all, when the inhabitants of distant worlds celebrate the end of invasions or the cease of civil wars, he’ll walk slowly through their happiness like a shadow without a source. He can’t turn around fast enough when he finally finds her though, and she’ll grin with so much happiness. These are their biggest hugs, when he’s not quite sure what she’s been through; the ones where she’ll throw her arms around his shoulders and her legs around his waist. She has the force to knock the wind out of him, but he holds her like he could never let go, because he doubts, he ever could. His Amelia Pond, he can’t believe he’d almost lost her. 

Sometimes, although they like to pretend otherwise, they can’t save everyone. Adventuring across the stars comes with a cost, and their mad fantasies inside a little blue box aren’t always enough to curb it. They’ve spent more time than they’d care to admit standing solemnly by gravesides, or by funeral pyres, watching through the smoke as the consequences of their invention drift aridly towards the sky. It’s in these moments that The Doctor watches Amelia Pond, tears glistening on her cheeks from bloodshot hazel eyes. He isn’t sure why it always surprises him when she cries - he supposes that her complexity and downright bravery usually mask how wonderfully human she is. He’s amazed at her entire species; how they manage to be quite so wonderful in their unpredictably. She tries to hide her tears from him sometimes, turning away and breathing heavily to steady herself in the midst of all the crashing emotions. He wants to hug her so tightly, run his hands through her hair and tell her that he values any and all emotion above anything else – but something tells him she won’t let him be that kind. She’s stoic and sarcastic in both the best and worst of times, so instead he stands quietly next to her, takes her hand and marvels at how brilliantly complex she is. 

He finds he tends to involuntarily stare at her when he’s the one saving the universe; as if, no matter what he’s doing, he can never really stop. Halfway through unlocking doors, sonicking, spitting speeches; it doesn’t matter - not even the entire universe in all of its absurdity can hold his attention for long enough –he’ll always find himself looking over at her. Most often it’ll be because he’ll say something that reminds him of her. When he’s caught up in nerves, reasoning with monsters, when the phrase “You can be so, much better…” starts to tumble out of his mouth, he’ll always stop himself and stare. No matter what villainous race; (if they do indeed turn out to be villains at all), they can never ever be better than the best of humanity. As far as he is concerned, Amelia Pond is the best of humanity, and to get better than her; he muses with a smile, well; it’d be impossible. 

When they’re walking back through their recently-saved civilisation, Amy will sometimes pull on his arm and drag him back to the TARDIS with an air of mesmerising delight. He can only thank her, he supposes, (silently, because he’ll never tell her), that all the people, the ones she’s weaving in and around like a small child in a fairground; they are all safe because of her. Her curiosity alone is what saves their lives. She’s got the imagination of a seven year old, she really has, and he loves it because he means they get to thwart danger in corners of the universe he’d never ever dream of having existed. He’s in awe of the places she can envision in that head of hers, and sometimes, it takes him a while to match specific planets to the completely crazy and really quite alarming concepts of which she daydreams. She’ll wonder in on occasion with a thoughtful expression, and he just knows she’s about to spend ages dictating on her latest fantasy, stumping him with her impossibility. A question as insane as ‘what if there was a planet where trees were candles?’ is never ever followed by a short conversation. 

To date; he’s found her planets with purple sea storms, sentient deckchairs, an entire solar system made of honey and; to her wild amusement, a planet so far out into the distant stars that was constructed entirely of rubber bands. They’ve met races of glass-droids, monarchies of pianos, and yet, despite this insanity that he beholds before his eyes, none of it is ever as wonderful as she can be. Her imagination saves the most brilliant of beings, and he hopes she falls asleep at night with a smile, because the constellations she saves will never ever forget her. Sometimes he’ll stumble across ancient myths regarding the girl with the red hair, or, rather, the maiden of the sky, as she’s called, in some of the older ones, where ‘ginger’ doesn’t exist in languages lost to time. Civilisations talk of her as the most important girl in the entire universe, and he always smiles at that, because yes; he supposes, she is. 

He loves the moment of pure exhaustion (and sometimes, hilarity) at the end of adventures when the TARDIS door clicks shut behind them. Most often they’ll just stand in the foyer and breathe a sigh of relief that they made it, really appreciating that the console has never looked more like home. Even on the simplest of adventures (if any of them can be called that) he’ll run a hand down her back and they’ll break out into contagious laughter over something that, really, is the stupidest thing in the world. He likes to think of it as the bridge between insanity and calm, that little acknowledgement they have together. It signals the end of adventure, and allows them both to regain a sort of comfortable familiarly without tension coursing through their veins. Just standing with her, breathing, God, it means more than he can explain. He’s safe, and she’s safe, and he could never ask for anything more. When the lock clicks, that’s it. The night is their own, and it’s up to Amy to decide what to do with it. 

Sometimes she decides to just sit around, and although she proves it ten-fold in the mornings, she can still captivate him entirely. Under the guise of fixing things, he’ll fiddle with the console with his mind firmly on her, watching as she’ll tuck her knees up under her like she’s waiting for him to tell her a story. If the early hours are reserved for Amy’s ramblings about fried eggs and her raggedy Doctor, then the evening is his, to tell her stories that’ll she’ll remember forever. He lets her very own legend swirl around the room, and eventually, after he’s finished describing her, she’ll always ask about the girl with the fire who he seems to speak of with such high regard. 'Oh, just an old friend of mine', he’ll reply with a smile, as if she isn’t sitting right in front of him. He adores the way she takes it all in, her eyes lighting up, brows furrowing, sipping mugs of hot chocolate and herbal teas. Sometimes they’ll be silent for a while, and just as he thinks she’s musing over other things she’ll ask him something so profound that he almost has to double take. She asks him whether this mad impossible girl in all of his stories ever got a happy ending, and he smiles slightly with an air of whimsical hope. He confesses that he doesn’t know, not entirely. The ending of Amelia Pond only dawns on him when she herself enquires about it; for all the legends he’s ever come across never speak of one. He hopes that whatever happens to the girl with all the starlight, if she does indeed end at all, she ends with something daring and spectacular, some outrage that might just befit her. 

It’s not just conceptually impossible planets she spends time dreaming up – she’s a master at the never ending stream of questions which are always directed at him with a vaguely accusing manner as if he’s been deliberately withholding information. Usually these occur when they’re sitting in the library together after a long day, and he loves watching her brow furrow right before she comes out with a question that’ll make his head spin. 'Y’know , I’ve never really thought about it', is usually his textbook response when she asks where the outside windows on the TARDIS go, or if the Daleks have a crippling fear of stairs. He’ll always shake his head in amazement as she takes in his lacklustre replies, thinking of something of similar insanity to inquire about. He would, he thinks, indulge her in more adequate answers, but he hates to stay on one topic for too long in fear of missing the brilliant way in which her mind seems to trip lightly through different concepts and catechisms. One minute she’ll be thinking about the possibility of deities, the next about dragons, and he loves it so much he’s ended up grinning without realising when she goes off on her incessant ramblings. On the topic of deities, he thinks, if there are indeed some out there; God love Amelia Pond. God love her. She’ll look around the library at the millions upon millions of books at her disposal, and yet prefers to settle for his half-prepared explanations comprising of about 57 analogies and a side track tale about space-scorpions. He’d try to be more concise, he really would, but he gets so distracted staring at her, marvelling at the fact that she’s even sitting there at all. Sometimes, when he’s past even that, when the orange in her hair reminds him of the early morning sky on Gallifrey, she gives him a smile that makes the breath catch in his throat. Then, and only then, does he force himself to look away. 

Of course, he’d be lying if he claimed all of their evenings were like this. His tales of legend and her persistent questioning are of course very common, but when the sky grows dark, sometimes the adrenaline is still too much to bear. He knows all too well that Amelia Pond is a handful at the best of times, but when fear and bravery still course through her veins hours after she’s stopped needing them, the last thing he can do is make her sit and listen. So instead he does the only thing he can think of. He lets her fly. If she looks dangerously beautiful when her hair reminds him of Gallifrey, when she stands by the door and lets the scripture light up her eyes like fire, then she never looks more Time Lord than when she’s at the helm of his time machine, grinning that wicked smile of hers. He reckons she’s got the hang of it pretty much; the random forceful lever throwing his almost on par with his own, but he can’t help but stand with her anyway, take her by the shoulders like he could never let go. He’s absolutely mesmerised by her sheer joy in her eyes that reflect in the glass of the time rotor, and he’ll snap open the doors with a click of his fingers to watch the stars blink on by as they motor their way through the universe. 

At times like these, and in view of her inevitable ending, he wishes he could step up by her side, watch stars descended in front of their eyes, and give her some of his lives that would make her live forever. Sometimes he thinks about it. Then he goes back to staring at her, because he knows that the universe would never settle to make a bargain like that. She’s mad and impossible enough as it is. 

Whatever evening they’ve had, however starry, however mundane, it always ends the same way. He can’t pretend he’s not expecting it at this point, but whatever he’s doing, she’ll stand up, walk over to him and kiss him goodnight. Sometimes it comes after many minutes of silence, or quickly, at the end of a flowing conversation after she’s declared she needs some sleep. One hand comes to rest on his shoulder, and she’ll kiss him on the cheek with all the gratitude in the world. It’s her unspoken thank you, he thinks, as he watches her saunter away with a smile. She’ll flash him those dark eyes of hers and disappear up the staircase, or out the door, marking the start of long hours he has to spend without her. Sometimes the kiss is coupled with a tired hug too, and she’ll stand in his arms quietly until they both remember to let go. Despite the nails that dig into the back of his jacket, he’s still firmly fixating on her kiss that’s left a trace on his cheek, and even after she disappears out of sight, he’s still rooted to the spot. 

She’s yet to do anything that doesn’t entirely overwhelm him, and he adores her completely, for that.


End file.
